by Bobbie Pyron
He wheeled, then froze. There before him stood a small female Maker, her mouth agape and her sky-blue eyes round with wonder. She did not smell afraid, nor did she smell dangerous. As a matter of fact, Trouble thought, she smelled just the way he’d felt that first time he saw the Maker riding atop the Beast: astonished.
She took one step forward. “Hi,” she said.
The spell was broken. Trouble turned and raced across the bridge, Mischief flying just above him. Between one breath and the next, the coyote pup disappeared into the thick undergrowth like a ghost.
Amelia brushed one shaking hand across her bangs and let out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Could the coyote have been the source of the howling she’d heard the night before?
She sat on a wooden bench and slid off her backpack. She reached in, felt past her binoculars, granola bar, water bottle, bird identification book, Junior Explorers Club notebook and pencil, until her fingers found what she was looking for. She pulled out her dog-eared copy of Peterson Field Guide to Mammals of New York. She flipped through the pages until she came to it: a photograph labeled The Eastern Coyote. There was no mistaking those tall, pointed ears, stilt-like legs, and, most astonishing, the piercing amber eyes.
“A coyote,” she said aloud. “A coyote right here in New York City!”
Amelia mulled over the implications. How would the presence of such a predator affect the natural, harmonious balance of life in Central Park? She knew the park was home to an abundance of creatures besides squirrels and pigeons. She even had a list in her notebook of all the wildlife she had seen: raccoons, skunks, chipmunks, herons, turtles, and once, on a morning she would never forget, a fox. But a coyote? Where had it come from?
Amelia took out her Junior Explorers Club notebook. She flipped past her sketches and descriptions of the birds and animals she had seen in the park until she came to a blank page. At the top, in her best handwriting, she wrote EASTERN COYOTE. She shivered with excitement at the words. Then, carefully and with striking accuracy, she drew a picture of Trouble.
When she finished, Amelia took the granola bar from her pack, peeled back the wrapping, and opened her mouth to take a bite. Then she stopped. What if the coyote was hungry? It did, after all, look rather young and scrawny. Perhaps it didn’t know how to hunt yet.
She broke the bar in half, crossed the bridge, and left one half of the bar just inside the thicket of green where the coyote had disappeared. She sat beneath a cherry tree a few feet away and waited. The coyote did not reappear.
Finally, Amelia packed up her things and shouldered her pack. She looked at her Junior Explorers Club watch. Her mother would be wondering where she was.
With one last look at the thick wall of green beneath which the coyote had slipped away, she said, “I’ll be back, coyote.”
Trouble listened to the light footsteps of the girl fade away. He crept from beneath the tangle of ivy and sniffed doubtfully at the granola bar. It did not have the warm, rich scent of mice or voles or rabbits. It did not smell of blood, but it did smell sweet. He took one small nibble and then another. He tossed the last bite up in the air, pounced on it, and gulped it down.
20
Trouble with Swans
Later that day, after a sudden rainstorm had chased most of the humans from the park, Trouble investigated overturned boats on the lakeshore. These too smelled of Makers, but they also smelled of lily pads and ducks and fish and grass.
“What do the Makers use these for?” he wondered aloud.
“Humans ride in them, out into the water,” Mischief explained. He snatched a worm crawling across the boat’s wooden hull.
“But why?” Trouble asked.
Mischief shrugged. “I don’t think they can swim.”
Trouble wagged his tail. Swimming sounded like a very good idea.
He waded into the cool water until his feet left the sandy bottom and began to paddle. His bushy tail streamed out behind like a rudder. Trouble had never been in water deep enough to require swimming. Once he got used to the feeling, it felt like flying.
Mischief watched the coyote from the top of the boathouse. He had rarely spent any time worth mentioning in The Ramble. For a crow like him, it was boring. Not enough action. Not enough possibilities, like in the city.
Then he spotted the swans.
Two large, white swans sailed majestically through a rippling patch of water lilies, necks arched. He could hear them gossiping in their high, nasal voices about the family of egrets who lived beside the boat dock.
“They’re just tacky,” the larger of the swans said. “No manners at all.”
“And their children!” the other swan gabbled. “Little hooligans, running amok!”
“Mean birds,” Mischief muttered. “I’ll give you something to talk about.”
“Hey,” he called out to Trouble. “See those big white birds out there?”
Trouble, who had just paddled back to shallow water, looked in the direction the crow pointed. He gasped. Never had he seen birds so big! Birds so white! Birds so, so . . . resplendent!
“They’re very friendly,” Mischief said, trying hard to sound sincere, something he had little practice with.
Trouble watched as the magnificent birds glided closer. “Really?”
“Sure,” Mischief said. “I think you should swim out and”—he tried to keep the glee from his voice—“you know, introduce yourself.” He watched the pup wade a little deeper into the water, his eyes fixed on the swans. He fluffed his feathers. This should liven things up.
He sidled over to the coyote. “I bet they’ve never met a real live coyote before. They’ll be curious.”
Trouble, of course, knew all about curious.
Trouble struck out for the swans. The swans watched the coyote swimming toward them.
“Who goes there?” the larger swan honked.
“I’m Trouble,” the coyote answered. “I’m a real live coyote.”
The smaller swan hissed. Although she had lived all her life in Central Park, she had heard about coyotes from migrating geese. She knew they were nothing but troublesome scavengers not above raiding nests.
“You,” she said, beating her wide wings and standing as tall as she could, “do not belong here. Leave our water at once!”
Mischief chortled from his perch. This was going to be good.
“But,” Trouble said, swimming closer to the swans, “I just came over to say hi. Where I come from, we don’t have birds like you.”
The larger bird, especially vain even for a swan, arched his neck and fluffed his smooth, white feathers. “Pity,” he clucked.
Trouble was growing tired but decided to swim just a little closer to get a better look.
A little too close.
A long neck shot out, as quick as a snake, and pecked Trouble right on the top of his head.
“Ow!”
“Stay back, you ruffian,” the larger swan hissed.
“But—” Trouble said.
The female slammed her bill against the side of Trouble’s head; the male grabbed the end of Trouble’s nose.
“Ow! Yow! Yow!” the coyote yipped, which was very difficult with a swan holding his nose.
Trouble tried to pull away from the swan. She beat him about the head with her wings, churning the water to a white froth.
Even Mischief had to admit this was getting out of hand. He had never meant for the coyote to get hurt.
He swooped out over the water and snatched at the top of the swan’s head with his claws. “Who you calling a ruffian?” he cawed.
The swan released Trouble’s nose and swiped at the crow with his wide wings. “Low-life!”
Trouble paddled frantically away from the swans. His ears rang. His nose felt as if it had been stung by a million hornets. Why had he listened to Mischief?
The swans sailed after the coyote. “We’re not done with the likes of you,” they honked.
Trouble swam faster.<
br />
“You’ll change your name from Trouble to Sorry,” the male trumpeted.
Just as he stretched his neck out and grabbed the end of Trouble’s tail, Mischief streaked downward from the sky like a black arrow.
“Let him go!” he screamed.
The swan released Trouble’s tail and lurched up with surprising strength. With one powerful beat of his wings, he knocked Mischief from the sky and into the water.
Trouble’s paws had once again touched the sandy bottom of the lakeshore when he heard, Crawk!
He turned to see Mischief slapped from the sky and into the lake. Good, he thought. Let him see what it’s like.
He watched for the crow to rise from the water. He did not.
He waited for the crow to shout insults at the swans. He did not.
The crow lay stunned, floating in the water, his wings spread wide. The swans pecked the crow once, then twice.
“Well done,” they said in unison, and paddled away.
Despite all the trouble Mischief had caused—what with the chasing, the dive-bombing, not to mention the elevator incident—the pup would not turn his back on the crow.
Because the coyote knew that despite the crow’s penchant for pranks, he had also saved him from being caught by Makers more than once. Coyotes are nothing if not fair-minded.
Trouble shook as much water from his coat as he could and swam out to the crow. Gently, he took the bird in his mouth, swam back to shore, and dropped him on the grass.
He poked Mischief with his nose. “Wake up,” he said.
The bedraggled bird did not awaken.
Trouble picked up the crow by his tail feathers and gave him a good, hard shake.
Ack! Gack! Gack! the crow coughed.
Trouble dropped Mischief onto the grass, none too gently.
“Hey, careful,” Mischief snapped.
“We’re even now,” Trouble said.
The crow shook the water from his feathers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You said you’d saved me,” he reminded Mischief. “Now I’ve saved you.”
“So?”
“So,” Trouble said. “We’re even now.”
“Oh, come on,” Mischief said. “I was just having a little fun.”
“You call that ‘fun’?” Trouble growled. “Where I come from, we don’t treat our friends that way.”
“I might have gone a little too far,” Mischief admitted, “but—”
Trouble ignored him. “And let’s not forget the ‘fun’ I had in the elevator.”
Trouble trotted a few paces away from the crow. “I’m done with you. You’re not my friend anymore.”
“Ha!” Mischief called. “You need me! You’ll never find that produce truck without me!”
Trouble paused. The crow might be right, he knew.
“I’ll figure it out,” he said, with all the confidence he did not have.
“Fine!” Mischief cawed.
“Fine!” Trouble barked.
And with that, the coyote disappeared into the fringe of ferns bordering the thick green undergrowth; the still-dripping crow lifted into the sky.
Trouble lay curled in his den. Rosebud cleaned his coat and comforted his swollen nose.
“I don’t know why you ever trusted that crow,” Rosebud said with a cluck of her tongue. “Everyone knows crows are tricksters, not to mention smart alecks.”
“I never paid any attention to crows back in our forest. They were just like the rest of the birds—except eagles,” Trouble said with a shudder. “Eagles are very worrisome. Crows you never have to think about.”
Trouble sighed. “Everything is so confusing here. Pranking crows, screaming Makers, and Beasts everywhere.” The pup shivered. “I’ve seen all I ever want to see of what’s beyond. I just want to go home.”
Rosebud curled close to the young coyote, even though he was wet and smelly. Quietly, she hummed songs her mother used to sing when she and her brothers and sisters lived snug and safe in her pouch.
“I want to play with my big brother, Twist, and race my sister Swift in our meadow.” His eyes began to droop. Rosebud continued to hum.
“I want to hear Singing Creek and listen to my father tell my mother how beautiful she is, beautiful as the moon.” His eyes closed.
“My sister Star has the best singing voice, and my brother, Pounce, is a mighty hunter.” His voice trailed off, and soon he was asleep.
Rosebud continued to hum while the coyote slept. She wondered where her family was. She had not seen her mother or her ten siblings in a very long time and knew she’d never see them again. That’s the way it was with opossums: families did not stay together.
The opossum pushed in closer to the curve of the coyote’s belly, a place beginning to feel like home—closed her eyes, and dreamed.
21
High Jinks and Shenanigans
The next night, Trouble and Rosebud again met the fox and the owl in the glen. Clouds scudded across the moon, resting on its back in the night sky. Mischief was nowhere to be seen.
After Trouble had finished telling his story of the painful encounter with the swans and Mischief’s part in it, the fox said, “Oh well, that’s just like a crow, isn’t it? They think they’re such clever creatures, but really.” She sniffed and gave her brushy tail a good swish.
“And don’t get me started on swans,” the owl said. “Such pompous birds.” He tossed the mouse he clutched in his talons into his mouth and gulped it down whole, headfirst.
“Where I come from,” Trouble said, “we don’t have swans, and the crows mind their own business.”
The fox nosed a tennis ball left behind by a forgetful dog. “Sounds a tad boring.”
“I think it sounds wonderfully peaceful,” Rosebud said. “No dogs to chase you, no humans calling you insulting, hurtful names like ‘vermin,’ ‘rodent,’ and”—she wiped at a tear in the corner of her black-button eyes—“‘icky.’”
The fox wagged the white tip of her tail in sympathy. “I know just how you feel, my dear. Humans have no idea of the special beauty of a possum, or a fox for that matter.”
Rosebud moved just a little closer to the fox.
The owl cleared his throat. “Our small friend is an opossum, not a possum, and a much maligned and misunderstood creature at that.” For the next five minutes, the owl expounded on the difference between opossums and possums (one lives in the Americas and the other lives in Australia) and their many virtues (timid, clean, eat cockroaches and ticks).
Rosebud’s nose turned deep pink with pleasure.
“My goodness,” the fox said. “How do you know so much?”
The owl puffed out his chest. “I once domiciled in a wildlife refuge and attended lectures. I have superior hearing and memory.”
“Why, you’re a regular professor, aren’t you?” the fox barked with delight.
Trouble jumped to his feet. “Hey Professor,” he barked. “Since you know so much, you should be able to figure out how I can get back home.”
All the creatures sitting there in the moonlight looked up at the owl. The crickets stopped singing; the frogs fell silent.
“Oh, could you?” Rosebud asked.
“Well now,” the owl stammered, “in theory that is true, but then again it is a matter of orientation, triangulation, kilometers versus—”
“But will you try?” Trouble pleaded. “I miss my family so. My mother must be crazy with worry by now.”
“You must try,” Rosebud said to the owl.
They waited for the owl’s reply as he tapped his talons on the branch. Finally, he clicked his beak in irritation. “Yes, I will try. Of course I will try.” He stretched his wings in preparation of flight. “I would hardly be an owl worthy of the species if I did not apply my considerable intellect to—”
“Hurray!” Trouble yipped. “Thank you, Professor!”
He picked up the fox’s tennis ball in his mouth. It tasted of the dog who had left it behin
d.
Trouble flung the ball in the air. He watched with amazement as it rolled down the gentle slope to the pond. “Moon and stars,” he barked in wonder. “How does it run without legs?”
“It’s a ball, silly,” the fox said. “Don’t you have balls where you come from?”
Trouble shook his head. “Is it to eat?”
“Better than that,” the fox said, galloping down to the ball, “it’s a toy.”
Trouble cocked his head to one side.
The fox picked up the ball in her mouth, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “It’s to play with!”
“Oh, play!” Trouble dropped to his elbows, stuck his rear end in the air, and wagged his tail.
The fox tossed the ball to the coyote, who scooped it up in his mouth.
Trouble tossed the ball to Rosebud, who tossed it back to the coyote. Trouble flipped it toward the fox. The fox caught it and, with a gleeful bark, ran into the forest.
“Hey!” Trouble barked.
Trouble raced after the fox, chasing the white tip of her tail. The fox slowed just enough to let the coyote think he could catch her and then off she dashed again.
Trouble intercepted the fox, grabbed the ball, and raced around and around a tree.
Rosebud grinned with delight; the owl turned his back on the whole nonsense. “Whoever saw such high jinks,” he muttered. “Most undignified, all this cavorting and shenanigans.
“Whoever heard of a member of the Opossum Clan and Coyote Clan being friends,” the owl sniffed. “It is not the natural order of things.”
“I’ve never heard of an opossum and a fox being friends,” Rosebud pointed out.
“Not even here, in the city?” Trouble asked as he flopped down next to Rosebud. He thought about all the things in this city of Makers that made no sense.
They shook their heads. “Not even here,” the owl said.
“We are friends because of you,” Rosebud said.
“And the better for it,” the fox added.